


smoke and mirrors

by majorbern



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F, Older lesbians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3696335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorbern/pseuds/majorbern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love may not conquer everything, but it's stronger than it's given credit for, and it's about time Jocelyn realised that. Set post-S2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. preface

_Present_

"Do you think they'll be strong enough?"

Maggie rolled her eyes. She cast about for an appropriate response, but none was forthcoming. Who did Jocelyn think she was, anyway? Mystic Meg? How was she supposed to know what they'd do? When she turned to face her, her friend was still glaring self-righteously in the opposite direction. She felt exhausted suddenly.

"Oh, give it a rest, Jocelyn," she sighed, wearily.

Jocelyn looked around in surprise.

"Give what a rest?"

"This!" Maggie gestured towards her slumped figure. "The dying martyr routine! Aren't you a bit old for all this adolescent angst? Don't you ever get sick of gazing moodily into the middle distance?"

"It's not that simple!" Jocelyn protested, indignantly, and Maggie scoffed.

"Isn't it," she muttered, drily. It wasn't a question. When Jocelyn didn't answer, she rounded on her, angrily.

"What did you think would happen? You'd take the case, we'd walk off into the sunset, and nothing bad would ever happen again? That's not life, that's not this world I've dragged you back into! It's bitter, and it's bloody, and we have to accept it, because it's all we've got! Shit happens, and we can't always stop it, but you did the right thing, you were there for the Latimers when they needed you, and that's what _matters_ , that's what _counts_! Even if we'd known he'd get off, it would still have been the right thing to do! Yes, we failed, but that's a separate issue, only you're too bloody proud to realise it! This thing, it's bigger than you, it's bigger than all of us; and you can't just expect things to happen the way you want them to because you've acted honourably! Grow up, get a life!"

Reaching the end of her tirade, she rested her hand in her hands, all but crying in frustration. God, but Jocelyn was infuriating. Was it because she loved her, she wondered, or in spite of that? She'd never been able to tell, but love her she did, so more fool her, she supposed.

They sat for some time in silence, after that, each engrossed in her own thoughts. Eventually, Maggie heard movement behind her; footsteps soft on the sand. When she looked up, it was to see Jocelyn standing before her, her hand outstretched.

"Come on," she said, simply. "You're right, we can't always get what we want. We lost, and we shouldn't have, but we can't change it now. But please, let's walk off into the sunset. After all we've been through, I think we've earned that much, at least."

Maggie grinned, in spite of herself, and accepted Jocelyn's hand, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet and off towards the cliffs. As they walked, she glanced over at Jocelyn. As ever, her posture was stately; her features captivating. It was almost enough to take her breath away, even now, after all these years.

"You're insufferable, you know," she informed her, archly.

Jocelyn met her gaze, an amused light in her eyes.

" _Me_? What about you? Why do you always have to be right all the time? It's unspeakably annoying."

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Maggie teased, and nudged her affectionately, as the sun slid still lower in the sky.


	2. fire and brimstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers: strong references to homophobia, vague reference to assault

_Several years previously_

Maggie Radcliffe had never been especially devout, but she had chosen to move to an idyllic seaside location, and she fully intended to immerse herself wholeheartedly in parochial life. Therefore, every Sunday since her arrival had seen her donning muted pastels, depositing herself in the parish church, and singing about Jerusalem with the best of them. And in a way, she quite enjoyed it. But there was something about it, too, that she found faintly unsettling, something that sent a prickle of unease down her spine. The sensation was not dissimilar to that of being watched by some unseen third party. It wasn't anything specific, she didn't think, that made her feel this way, but it had grown worse with every service she'd attended, and today was no different. She glanced surreptitiously about, at her fellow parishioners. None of them seemed to be paying any particular attention to her. Most were listening politely to the sermon, a couple were gazing dreamily out of the window, and one bloke, in the row in front of her, was snoring softly into his hymn book. A few of them did seem to be sitting rather stiffly in their pews, but there was nothing to suggest that that had anything to do with her. It would be impressively arrogant of her, she reasoned, to assume that her company alone could provoke such a reaction in people she hardly knew. Still, though, she couldn't quite shake the feeling, and she shivered, pulling her cardigan more tightly around her.

Afterwards, as she was about to leave, the vicar, standing, as he was, in the doorway, put a hand out to stop her.

"Ms. Radcliffe, I wonder if you'd mind staying a few minutes? I'd like to have a word, if I may?"

Oh, Jesus Christ, what now? She nodded, mutely, and stood aside, awaiting her fate. This was it, she just knew it, this was the thing that had been setting her nerves on edge. The day of reckoning had come upon her. As the last remaining stragglers melted away, she allowed herself to be led into a small side chamber, where she was surprised to see a cluster of older men, all sitting at the far side of an ancient table, and all looking as though they sorely wished to be somewhere else. The vicar, one Revd. John Atkinson, crossed to an empty chair in the middle, and motioned for her to sit across from him.

"Do have a seat."

Reluctantly, Maggie complied. She wasn't going to like this, she could tell.

"Ms. Radcliffe, the church elders and I have asked you to join us because certain things have been brought to our attention which we cannot, in good conscience, ignore." John Atkinson coughed. A few of what she now knew were the church elders shifted uncomfortably. The vicar cast his eye over her left hand.

"You don't wear a wedding ring. You're single, I take it?"

Maggie sighed. Slouched back in her seat. It was tempting just to storm out there and then, refusing to be subjected to such indignities, but she might as well let them get it all out of the way now, and have done with it.

"Yes, I'm single."

"You never married?"

"No."

He waited, as if expecting her to elaborate, but she was damned if she was going to make this any easier for them. A man to his left leaned forward, a frail-looking, watery-eyed figure, with skin the texture of paper.

"Is there any reason for that, Ms. Radcliffe?" he wanted to know.

She treated that question with all the contempt it deserved: "Well, no one's ever asked me."

"And you've no children?"

"No."

The man turned away, seeming to commune silently with the vicar, who titled his head to one side, and spoke once more.

"Where did you grow up, Ms. Radcliffe?"

Maggie blinked. That was one she hadn't been expecting.

"Yorkshire," she admitted, after a bemused pause.

"I see," he nodded, "and where did you go to school?"

"Well, that was in Yorkshire as well." She hadn't intended to sound quite so curt, but really, what was the point of all this meaningless chatter? Besides which, she'd got better things to do than sit around being interrogated by ageing clerics all day.

"Yes," the vicar nodded again, indulgently, in the manner of one who was granting her some unmerited ecclesiastical honour, "but what sort of a school was it? Single-sex, or mixed?"

Ah, so that was it. That was the reason for this scenic detour in the conversation.

"It was a girls' school."

At this, an audible ripple went around the table. Glances were exchanged; feet shuffled. It was almost farcical, and she might well have laughed, had the implications not been so horrifying. The vicar's expression was severe.

"And did you have any particular friends?"

Maggie regarded him for some time before answering.

"No more so than usual," she said, finally. Her voice sounded oddly far off, even to her own ears. Her eyes hadn't left his, and he held her gaze, uncompromisingly, in a silent battle of wills. Then he sighed once more, apparently deciding that this line of enquiry was getting him nowhere, and adopted a more blunt approach.

"Ms. Radcliffe, there's been ... talk. In the town."

"Oh?" Maggie quirked an eyebrow, with mocking interest. God, this was really starting to get on her nerves. 

"I don't know if you realise quite how serious this is," the vicar continued, more tartly, his voice like ice.

"Well, why don't you tell me?" she snapped, before she could stop herself.

"You must understand that these are more than just rumours." He fluffed himself up, pompously, looking rather like a self-important chicken. "The church does not trouble itself with idle gossip. But some of our members have come to us in distress, and, if what is being said is true, I'm afraid that we will no longer be able to accept you as a member of our congregation."

"You still haven't told me what these 'rumours' are!" By now, Maggie was so appalled, and so offended, that she was practically shaking with rage. It wasn't just being subjected to such utter abasement; the total humiliation of having been summoned here to justify herself and her life to this group of relative strangers, but their manner, too, that sickened her. Their apparent reluctance to say what they really meant. What did they think, that by speaking the words aloud, they'd bring fire and brimstone immediately down upon themselves? Was the very idea so impalatable to them that they couldn't bring themselves to tarnish their delicate mouths with it?

"It's being said that you subscribe to a lifestyle that is unacceptable to God. That ... that you prefer your own sex to the company of men. And if this is true," he went on, hurriedly, as if anticipating a violent reaction on her part, "if this is true, then we will be left with no choice but to ask you to quit this church for good."

"You're throwing me out?" Maggie spat.

The vicar paused. Winced.

"I wouldn't put it like that."

"Oh, wouldn't you!" She leapt to her feet, jostling the table as she went, unable able to contain her anger any further. "I think I'll be going, if you don't mind. I've heard quite enough. Reverend, the next time you feel the need to insult me with petty insinuations about my personal life, I'd much rather you did it over the phone, and saved us both a lot of trouble. You needn't worry, I get the message; I won't be darkening your doorway with my presence again. But I'd like to say, once and for all, having sat through this degrading little ceremony, that I most certainly do, and always will, _prefer my own sex to the company of men_!"

With that, she turned on her heel and fled, through the side door, down the aisle of the church hall, and out into the sunshine, almost tripping over the front steps as she went, half-blinded by self-righteous tears.

* * *

 

It was as she passed by the old church, on one of her frequent walks, that Jocelyn's reverie was broken by the sound of raised voices nearby. She stopped in her tracks, surprised at such passionate displays of emotion in this usually sleepy part of town. The noise seemed to be coming from within the church itself. As she drew nearer, the door burst open, and Maggie Radcliffe all but fell out of it, careering clumsily toward the gate. Jocelyn hastened to her side, sensing something wrong, asking if she was alright.

"Perfectly," Maggie muttered, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. It was a hopeless endeavour: she was crying heavily, and her face was filthy; stained and smeared with tears, and anguish, and God knew what else. Despite her professed alright-ness, it seemed to be all she could do to remain upright, and Jocelyn took her arm, guiding her gently away, with a nervous glance back at the church. A terrible thought struck her.

"Has something happened?" she blurted, "Are you hurt?"

Maggie shook her head.

"Nothing like that."

"You're Jocelyn Knight," Maggie observed, once they were a safe distance away from the churchyard, and she'd had the chance to catch her breath. Jocelyn smiled, gratified that Maggie had remembered her name out of context. They hadn't been introduced, as such, but they'd seen each other in court a few times now, and once or twice around the town.

"Yes, and you're Maggie. Radcliffe." She added the surname as an afterthought. She'd already come to think of her simply as Maggie.

"What happened in there?" she persisted, not wholly convinced that Maggie was unharmed.

"They chucked me out. Of the church."

Jocelyn blanched.

"That doesn't sound very Christian."

Maggie didn't answer, only ploughed relentlessly on, her face like iron, revealing nothing.

Jocelyn watched her, anxiously. Bit her lip.

"Come on," she instructed, coming to a decision, and steering Maggie firmly in the direction of her own house, which they weren't far from, now. "I don't know about you, but I think I need a drink."


	3. the rules of the game

_The same_

The first time she realised she was out of her depth, she was already in too deep to get back to the shore. The two of them were sitting in the pub's back garden, on a balmy summer's day, and the sun was bringing out flecks of burnished gold in Maggie's hair. After that first, unfortunate encounter, an unlikely friendship had developed between them, a natural affinity of hearts and minds blossoming languidly into a serene devotion, their affection cloaked in caustic remarks and pitiless irony. It had come as naturally as breathing; irrepressible as the tide. There was something, wasn't there, about ordeal by fire, that bound people irrevocably together? Jocelyn had come to Maggie's aid at her time of need, and Maggie would never forget what she'd done for her. Jocelyn, for her part, had been so concerned for Maggie's safety that she had forgotten to be nearly so nervous around her as she would have been otherwise. (She hadn't even been able to speak, before, when she had found herself in any sort of close proximity to Maggie. Though she'd longed to strike up a conversation, all she could manage was a strangled-sounding noise in the back of her throat, which she would then have to disguise as a hacking cough in order to save face. She wouldn't have been at all surprised to learn that Maggie thought she'd got some mysterious, throat-hindering disease.

"What's she like?" she remembered enquiring, eagerly, of a workmate and mutual acquaintance, whom she'd spotted chatting easily with Maggie on their way out of court one day, and "Is she married?"

"Maggie?" Her colleague had given a derisive snort, and leaned in, conspiratorially. "No. I don't think she's the type.")

She supposed she'd always known, on some level, that it was dangerous; recklessly so. She was taking unnecessary risks; breaking countless unspoken promises, but she couldn't help it. Didn't want want to.

She realised, with a start, that Maggie was staring at her across the table.

"What?" she blurted, without thinking.

Maggie pursed her lips. Regarded her for a long moment.

"Why are we friends?" she asked, finally, with characteristic bluntness.

Jocelyn blinked, taken aback. Oh, God. Where to begin? She knew, of course, her own reasons for the alliance: she adored Maggie; entirely, unreservedly. Always had done. And Maggie brought out the best in her, her breezy confidence smoothing gently over the cracks that Jocelyn's self-consciousness left in its wake. But she hadn't thought to question the attachment on Maggie's side. Perhaps she had been afraid to.

"Well, we like each other," she ventured, at long last. "Don't we?" And oh, God, oh, _Christ_ , she hated it, that duplicitous tremor in her inflection; the way the doubt and the fear crept in at the corners. Ridiculous, really: here was she, the renowned barrister, famed of Crown Court, who struck terror into the hearts of the opposing counsel, unable to give voice to the most basic; the most primal of human emotions. Maggie was still watching her intently, her eyes as wide and clear as the cloudless sky above.

That was the thing about Maggie. She was nothing if not straightforward; her soul laid bare: no masks or skeletons lurking in her wardrobe. She accepted herself as she was, not caring whether anyone else did or not. It was an attitude as foreign to Jocelyn as the idea of damning her job to hell and taking Maggie in her arms there and then, surrendering everything. Her professional life, had, in the course of justice, to be conducted in public, and she wouldn't have had that any other way. But her personal life, her innermost feelings, waited in the wings, obscured, at all times, by smoke and mirrors. That was how she protected herself; protected those she fought valiantly for in the courtroom. Left to herself, she might have taken pride in a certain artistry of it; a subtle deftness in the production. Held up next to Maggie's pure, shimmering honesty, though, it looked drab and tarnished in comparison. Something made illicit, which should have been immaculate.

There was a challenge, she thought, in Maggie's expression; some age-old test of conviction. A beat passed, and then another. Jocelyn cringed under Maggie's unwavering scrutiny, oddly conscious of some burgeoning failure on her part; something she couldn't have explained, but which she felt sure would come back to haunt her for years to come.

Then, all at once, it was over: Maggie dropped her gaze, took a hearty gulp of her drink, and the spell was broken.

"Yes," she agreed. Her tone was firm, indifferent. "Yes, of course we do."

The afternoon passed in relative contentment, with nothing particular to distinguish it from any other. And yet, it was tinged, somehow, with darkness, though the sun shone brightly overhead, marred by something that felt an awful lot like loss. Like grieving.

That was what did it, what made her suspect that she might not be quite so well-acquainted with the rules of the game as one might have hoped; that she might just have drawn the losing hand, after all. As it happened, though, this was the least of her problems. Unbeknownst to her, fate was about to introduce and brand new player.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the feedback and support this story has received so far! More to come ASAP.


End file.
